Confusion, Fury, Forgiveness
by TheWalrusAndThePenguin
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Three years on Sherlock returns to find John worse than he could have ever imagined, both physically and emotionally.


_A/N: So here's another Sherlock fic - it seems that my head can't stop reeling them out. This all started with the idea that when Sherlock returns to Baker Street he finds John unconscious and it kind of got out of hand as my imagination wandered. It was written as a one-shot, but by all means I can continue it if you guys see fit. Hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

><p>Sherlock got out of the cab, coat falling behind him gracefully as he stepped onto the curb. He felt his phone vibrate and almost didn't check it, eyes carefully scanning the front door of 221B Baker Street.<p>

_Hurry. John's in trouble. – MH_

With that Sherlock quickly unlocked the door, flew up the stairs and found the living room completely empty. It only took his hypersensitive hearing a split second to register the gentle dripping coming from the bathroom. Sherlock was there in a flash, his mind racing as he took in the scene before him.

The bath was full. John Watson was lying facedown in the tub, his lean body slowly rocking with the movement of the water. Without thinking – an odd occurrence for Sherlock – the detective found himself rushing to John's aid, arms wrapping around him and pulling him out of the water.

Sherlock felt his chest clench as John's limp body fell against him. Sherlock pulled the smaller man out of the water and laid him on his side on the bathmat. John began to cough frantically, a mouthful of water falling from his lips, eyes still closed as he breathed in deep breaths. Sherlock hadn't realised he was holding his breath until he exhaled in relief, moving John to sit upright against the tub. He pushed John's overgrown blonde locks out of his eyes and looked at the broken man before him.

"'m sorry Mrs Hudson," John murmured, still not opening his eyes, but letting his head fall forward in defeat. "This is the last time, I won't do it again."

As John began to shiver Sherlock grabbed a towel and put it over the doctor, easily sweeping him into his arms and carrying him to his own bedroom.

"Not Mrs Hudson," John mused quietly, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest. "Mycroft maybe? Mycroft. Sorry, Mycroft."

Sherlock gently laid John out under the covers of the unmade bed. He tried to control the thoughts rapidly flowing through his head. Tried to ignore the fact that John's pyjamas were on the floor next to the bed, that it was clear that John had been sleeping in his room.

John closed his eyes and rolled away from Sherlock, pulling the covers over himself and burying his face into the pillow. Sherlock watched as John's back began to heave and small sobs escaped his lips. This wasn't at all the reunion Sherlock was expecting. He was expecting anger, fury, maybe a few tears from John, but nothing like the broken man clutching desperately at the pillows in front of him. He didn't know how to tell John. Now he was here and John still didn't know it was him. He thought it was Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him fall apart.

He briefly considered leaving 221B, allowing John alone with his grief, alone in the thought that it was Mycroft that had pulled him from the bath and carried him to Sherlock's old room. Sherlock, though, found himself unable to move. He couldn't look away from his best friend. Leaving wasn't an option. He reached out a hand to rest on John's back, long fingers spreading between the doctor's shoulder blades.

"It's okay, John,' Sherlock whispered, terrified that his voice would betray him. Terrified that his voice would betray his own grief at having to be away from John for so long, but most of all terrified that his voice would give away his identity.

"Why did he leave, Mycroft?" John asked. "I can't do this without him. I can't…"

Sherlock's breath hitched as he watched John completely lose control of his emotions. He couldn't take anymore. He stood and walked to the living room, sinking into his chair and bringing his fingers together beneath his chin.

Mycroft hadn't mentioned that John was still grieving. Mycroft had said that John was recovering, albeit slowly. Mycroft had clearly been trying to spare Sherlock's feelings while he was so focussed on trying to bring down Moriarty's empire. Sherlock allowed himself to get lost in thought and as usual he didn't notice the hours tick by. He was recounting a conversation three years previously with Mycroft regarding the importance of feelings when John Watson walked into the room, running a hand through his shaggy blonde hair. The doctor looked up and stopped dead, almost tripping over his own feet as his eyes locked onto Sherlock.

Sherlock stood, taking the opportunity of John's stunned silence to observe the older man's appearance. He was wearing pyjama pants and an old grey t-shirt. His clothes were hanging off his slim body, the doctor having clearly lost weight in the three years he was mourning his best friend.

"It wasn't Mycroft." John said, barely able to form the words. "It was you." Sherlock could hear the venom in his words. The pure anger radiating off John wasn't hard to detect.

"John, please let me explain-" Sherlock began, but John had stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock's lapels.

"You bastard!" John yelled, throwing Sherlock against the nearest wall, remnants of Sherlock's old experiments going flying. "You left me!"

"Like you can talk!" Sherlock spat back. "You fool! You absolute fool! I come home and you're lying there…You could have _died_ you idiot!"

"I _could_ have died?" John shouted, his grip on Sherlock tightening. He pushed Sherlock back against the wall again, hearing the breath involuntary hiss from between the detective's lips. "You _did_ die! You left me!"

John raised a fist and heard a sickening crack as his fist slammed into Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock slumped forward, only to have John use both hands to forcefully push him back against the wall. The doctor ignored the pain shooting through his hand and grabbed Sherlock's lapels once more, spinning them both around and throwing Sherlock to the floor.

Still shocked by John's outburst, Sherlock collapsed onto the hard wooden floor, his long limbs sprawled out. John stood over him, his chest rising sharply with each furious breath.

"You have every right to be angry," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Don't _patronise _me!" John yelled, landing another punch, this time in Sherlock's gut. Sherlock doubled over in pain. John pulled him back to his feet before laying another sharp blow to Sherlock's cheek, sending him flying across the floor and hitting his head on the corner of the coffee table.

For one self-indulgent moment John watched as Sherlock lay slumped on the floor, pleased at what he'd done. That moment only lasted a fraction of a second, however, before John saw the dribble of blood running down Sherlock's forehead and his thoughts immediately flew to that day three years earlier. John fell to his knees, head in his hands. He took one deep breath before crawling to Sherlock's stunned form.

Sherlock pushed himself upright, moving back to lean against the couch behind him. If John didn't know better he'd say that Sherlock was scurrying away from him, away from the man who just nearly beat him unconscious. Sherlock looked utterly dazed and John wasn't completely surprised. They were both lucky Sherlock hadn't been knocked unconscious.

Suddenly there was a crash and Mycroft came storming into the room.

"Good to see I've arrived in time to see you haven't completely killed my brother," Mycroft said, moving to wrap an arm around Sherlock and pull him to his feet. Sherlock swayed slightly before allowing Mycroft to help him onto the couch.

"If it wasn't for Sherlock making me promise to protect you, I'd have you arrested, John," Mycroft said, his hands moving over his little brother, lightly checking for serious injuries.

"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled.

"I watched him beat you to a pulp, Lockie, you're not _fine_," Mycroft said quietly to Sherlock. John's head reeled from both the knowledge that Mycroft had cameras in the flat and the fact that Sherlock accepted 'Lockie' as an acceptable nickname from his big brother.

"I'll leave you two to reacquaint yourselves," Mycroft said, moving away from Sherlock. "John, I'm only leaving because you're a doctor. Look after him for me. I'll know if you don't."

Mycroft swept from the room, the sound of the front door slamming echoing behind him. John stood unsteadily, moving to sit on the edge of the couch by Sherlock's feet.

"I'm angry at you," John said quietly, not looking at Sherlock.

"Something I was otherwise unable to deduce," Sherlock replied, a small grin pulling at his lips.

"I'd throw a pillow at your smug face, but I don't want Mycroft running in here to arrest me," John said with a smile.

Sherlock smiled back and tried to shift his body weight, groaning in pain as he did so. One hand moved to hold his head and he looked somewhat surprised to see his fingers covered in blood.

"Look what you did," Sherlock said light-heartedly.

"For god's sake Sherlock, look at you," John sighed. "Let me examine you."

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt as John stood and walked to his bedroom, returning moments later holding his doctors bag. He sat on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and took out his stethoscope.

"Take off your coat," John said, in full doctor mode. Sherlock did as John said, wincing slightly as he pulled his arms back. John silently listened to Sherlock's heart and lungs, moving the chest-piece from Sherlock's back to his torso and under his collarbone. He then pulled out a small light and checked Sherlock's pupil response.

"You're a little winded, but otherwise okay," John told him. "Now let me see that cut." Sherlock moved his head to the side and John pushed Sherlock's hair out of the way, only just realising that it was much shorter than what it had been three years previously. "You may need a couple of stitches, it's not that bad though, just a lot of blood."

"I'm not going to the hospital," Sherlock said resolutely. "You do it." John frowned, but got the necessary equipment from his bag and stitched Sherlock up.

"Do you feel dizzy?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "You may have a concussion, so I'm not going to let you sleep for a few hours. Plenty of time to tell me where the hell you've been for the last three years."

Sherlock was about to say that John too needed to be checked, his hand was severely bruised and he may have water in his lungs from being underwater for too long earlier, but John gave him a sharp look and Sherlock began to talk. It seemed that after some explaining, it was possible that normalcy would be able to return to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry if it was at all out of character, I'm still getting used to writing these characters. I'd quite like to leave it there, but if you do think I should continue let me know. I'll be writing quite a lot of Sherlock fanfiction in the following few months so stick with me! Thanks for reading, let me know what you thought. Jess x_


End file.
